Introductions: Keith Black
by Botosphere
Summary: Post RotF, companion fic to "The Tie That Binds." Admiral Keith Black has some issues with the alien machines his fleet has been forced to carry back to Diego Garcia. Too bad that Witwicky kid won't leave him alone about it.


Author's Note: This is a companion piece to both "Kinship" and "The Tie That Binds." If you haven't read those fics yet, my OC, Admiral Keith Black, is the commander over the fleet that the Autobots are sailing to Diego Garcia with after RotF. He's been antagonistic toward the Autobots and even placed them in lockdown at one point, but after going head-to-head with Sam, he finally lifted most of the restrictions he'd placed on the 'bots. Now he's having second thoughts...

* * *

As admiral of the fleet, I'd seen them several times in both their deceptively innocent vehicle forms and in their towering, terrifying alien mode. But in the four days they'd been on my aircraft carrier, I had yet to really speak with the machines.

Attendance at the NATO meeting had been optional, but I went because I wanted to keep an eye on that big one. I'd read the reports. I knew what he had done in Egypt, allegedly for us according to the Witwicky kid, but I couldn't help thinking that he'd been more interested in defeating his enemies than in saving us expendable little flesh-creatures. It was the PR job of the century to try to say that the aliens who used our cities as battlegrounds actually _cared _about humanity. They might care about the ones they work with – Major Lennox, the boy. They certainly had the humans convinced they cared, anyway, but I'd always held that actions spoke louder than words.

And then the kid came and basically chewed me out. He was slick, that one. The machines had a winner in him, and while most of his arguments rolled off my back, his words hit the mark on one undeniable point. The Decepticons tore through the _Roosevelt_; the Autobots were patiently enduring the restriction of the cargo bay and lockdown. They _could _have torn their way out at any point. They _could _have just ignored what we mere fleshy aliens told them.

When I finally hit the sack that night, I tossed and turned for hours. I still wasn't sure I'd made the right decision. People's lives were at stake, and I'd lifted the restrictions on little more than a gut reaction.

Sam thought Prime fought to the death because he loved the boy as a brother, and he had almost done the same for Prime. But what could metal and firepower know about brothers? I'd seen true familial love as my mother moved heaven and earth trying to find her MIA brother. These aliens couldn't possibly understand. They were _robots_! Machines didn't have brothers; they had serial numbers. But Sam said they had families – how could that possibly work for robots? Creator and created, sure I could understand some kind of a connection there. Maybe you could even claim a kindred tie, like they were all built from the same model. But _families_? Mother, father, son, daughter…no.

But I kept coming back to the fact that the big one had _died _trying to protect the kid. And Sam thought that Prime would do the same for _me_. But that didn't necessarily mean anything, I reminded myself. Prime was probably just doing what his programming told him do. Even human soldiers died for each other and for complete strangers without some kind of love driving them. They were doing their duty, following orders.

But in the military, didn't we act out of _some_ kind of love – love of duty, love of country?

I sighed and rolled over in my bunk, frustrated.

And what about that art thing? They claimed the Matrix was an important _cultural _artifact – not tactical or historical or whatever. And Sam brought it up again this evening. Had they somehow hacked into my email? How else could they possibly know? My wife Jamie was an artsy kind of person. That's how I'd met her, in fact – my mom and she were both in a painting class together. And Jamie's favorite artists were the Impressionists. She always said she loved how you have to see the big picture to understand _any _of it. Too often, we focus on the details in life and every time she saw an impressionist piece, she was reminded that what might look like an accident or a mistake is really just part of a bigger picture.

I thank God every night that I ended up with such a smart, patient, and _wise _woman for a wife.

I could almost hear her in my mind, telling me I needed to do the same thing and try to see the big picture here. If they could inspire that kind of…devotion from the boy, there had to be something more to them than circuits and gears. Whatever else I might have been right or wrong about, the aliens _were_ more than just glorified cars.

Maybe…maybe I should call Witwicky's bluff. He said they have art – fine, I'd ask to see it.

…

The next morning, I arrived on the bridge to find the boy and the big one – Optimus, his name was Optimus – standing on the end of the flight deck. "What's he doing there?" I asked Captain Wilder.

"Mr. Witwicky requested permission for them to make a transmission."

"A transmission?"

"A documentary report to Optimus' kind, outlining the events of the past week. The JCS approved it."

I sighed, shaking my head. I was an admiral, damn it. I was in _command_. I didn't like feeling out of my depth. I didn't like being the last to know. And I didn't like feeling…other. They were _aliens_, and so were we to them. Which reminded me of my resolution last night.

Turning to my aide, Ensign Roskelley, I said, "What's the schedule today?"

"A meeting with the JCS first thing, training reviews for the second half of the morning, then regular staff meetings in the afternoon. We also have a penciled-in follow-up with the Egyptians tonight."

"And the boy?"

"Mr. Witwicky?" Roskelley consulted his PDA. "OPEC this morning, followed by a meeting with the Russians. After lunch, he's meeting with Major Lennox and the JCS, then an appointment with European Union leadership this evening and dinner with the British Prime Minister."

"Does he have anything on the docket for lunch plans?"

"No."

"Put in a request to al-Sharif. I want to have lunch with Mr. Witwicky. Just the two of us."

"Yes sir."

Nodding to myself, I went about the business of running a fleet. Whatever else may be going on in the world, fellow sailors had been killed, and our level of readiness had to be higher than ever.

When we broke for lunch, the kid came with only al-Sharif for backup. We stood awkwardly across the table in the captain's mess for a moment, and then I gestured him to sit.

He sat down, eyeing the food curiously.

"Never seen a pizza before?" I asked gruffly.

"Not on an aircraft carrier."

"Your mom said it was your favorite."

He blinked a few times, looking shell-shocked, and then pulled a slice onto his plate. "Thank you, sir."

It was just pizza. Why was the little twerp making such a big deal about it? "Did you think we'd only eat lobster in the captain's mess?"

"No sir." He gave me an appraising look and said, "It's just, the last time I was near an all-meat pizza, a Decepticon had her tongue wrapped around my neck. The scent triggered the memory."

"That's not one I've seen in the reports," I commented casually, taking a bite of the pizza.

He shuddered slightly but took a bite. He was a teenage boy, and this was pizza. Negative associations or not, he would eat at least half of the large pie in front of us.

"She was the one that flushed me out of hiding so Megatron could capture me. My girlfriend killed her."

I choked on my bite of pizza. "Your _girlfriend _killed a Decepticon?"

He gave me a cocky grin. "And she tamed one, too. She's an amazing woman."

I busted out laughing despite myself. "Maybe we should recruit her."

"Sorry sir, but she's already _mine_. We get into enough trouble as _civilians_, thanks."

Still chuckling, I allowed, "True."

After draining his cola, Witwicky asked, "So why am I having lunch with just you?"

"You don't beat around the bush, do you, kid?"

"Doesn't work with you."

I nodded, acknowledging the truth of it. I took a deep breath, trying to get up the courage to follow through with what I'd planned. "I'd like to meet your Autobots."

"Sure," he answered without missing a beat. "When?"

"Can you walk and eat pizza at the same time?" Because I didn't want to give them any advance warning. I didn't want to see some polished presentation – I wanted to see Prime's personality firsthand.

Sam grinned. "I'm a college kid. Of course. Just let me make sure Optimus is free…" He held his hand out to al-Sharif, and the ensign put a cell phone in his hand. The kid sent a text and got an almost-immediate reply. Nodding once, he gave it back to his aide and announced, "We're good to go."

We got quite a few startled salutes and odd looks as we walked through the halls with our aides in tow, Witwicky with a stack of three slices of pizza on his plate. I inwardly grinned. It was fun to keep my sailors on their toes.

In the tense silence of the elevator, I asked, "So what did you tell Optimus?"

His mouth full, he nodded to al-Sharif, who pulled out the cell. Retrieving the text, he read, "'Admiral coming. Mute S and M.' The reply reads, 'LOL Acknowledged.'"

"_S and M?_" I was hoping and praying that _didn't_ mean what I thought it did.

"Skids and Mudflap," al-Sharif translated. "The two youngest of the Autobots."

Swallowing, Witwicky said, "Trust me, they never have anything intelligent to say. They're like really obnoxious ten-year-old boys. _Foul-mouthed_ obnoxious ten-year-olds."

"I thought Ironhide was the foul-mouthed one."

He paused. "When Ironhide cusses, he _means _it. If he ever directs the f-word at you, don't think for a second it's a metaphor. The twins probably don't know what half of what they're saying even means. I sure don't."

And how in the name of all that's holy did a giant alien robot warrior learn what 'LOL' was?

The elevator door opened, and I allowed Mr. Witwicky to precede me. Though it was only semi-official, he _was_ an ambassador. I refused to even consider the idea that I might be hiding behind this _kid._

Optimus Prime stood waiting in the middle of the cargo bay, his troops in a line behind him. I looked to each in turn, trying to match up the monsters in front of me with the photographs of cars that I'd seen. The bright yellow one was the easiest, followed by the Hummer medic. Beside him sulked two little ones, green and orange. Skids and Mudflap, I presumed. The one with wicked-looking blades on his arms, the one who had torn through that city in Argentina…I shuddered slightly and then focused again on Optimus. He was why I was here – him and the friendship he shared with the boy.

"Admiral," he greeted.

"Prime." I swallowed hard and stepped closer – it was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. 'Showtime,' I told myself. "I know you received word yesterday evening, but I wanted to personally lift the restrictions you've been under. You have been cleared as a threat to this vessel or the rest of my fleet and are free to move about the ship with the same degree of freedom as human civilians."

The enormous robot slowly knelt, making himself three times as tall as me instead of six times. Marginally less intimidating, but the gesture was appreciated. "Thank you, Admiral Black." The gratitude in his voice told me he had heard the apology in my words and accepted it.

"You're welcome." I settled into an at-ease stance, which was as at-ease as I would ever get around them. "It's purely voluntary, but can I ask you a few questions?"

"Of course," Prime answered.

I took a deep, steadying breath. I'd received a full brief of their holographic projection capabilities, but I still wasn't sure what to expect. "Firstly…what does Autobot art look like?"

Witwicky started chortling. "Four fricken days of brutal questioning, and you're the first to ask _anything _that wasn't about war or technology. Even I've never thought to ask that!" Somehow balancing his plate of pizza, he hopped into the outstretched hand of the yellow Autobot Bumblebee and made himself comfortable. "Go on Optimus, show us!"

Prime gave Witwicky an unreadable glance and then projected the image of a large statue. Even though this robot looked even more alien than Prime, something about the stance was surprisingly…human. He explained that this was the legendary founder of his clan, and that word stuck with me. Clan – it made a lot more sense than 'family.' More believable, certainly.

Then he showed us a fountain and explained some of the mythology behind it, and if this hadn't been _completely _spontaneous, I would have thought he was making it all up. Mystical robots? Teachings of an afterlife? I stared at the Prime before me, struggling to believe what I was beginning to feel on a gut level. They were as complex as we humans were.

When he explained that their proto-whatevers weren't interchangeable, I realized I had assumed exactly that. They were just machines that could be rebuilt or stripped for parts or blown up and reassembled. The whole thing about them 'dying' I'd translated into 'broken beyond repair.' But there was something unique about each one of them, something that _did _die and they hoped continued to exist somewhere afterward. They had a _soul _– or at least, they thought they did. But wasn't that belief important in and of itself?

The cube-shaped artwork was what most piqued my interest, though. An _abstract_? I'm not a tenth as artsy as Jamie, but I understood enough to know that abstracts were very introspective pieces. Even the oldest cameras could depict what they saw, in a manner of speaking. No intelligence is required to mimic what's right in front of you. But to look at a line or a curve or a splat of color and see meaning or emotion or beauty there…

"His name is Sunstreaker," Optimus explained about the cube's maker, "and he is Sideswipe's twin."

There it was again – twin. I bristled inside at their claim of family. "So if Sunstreaker is your brother, where is he?"

"His location is unknown," Optimus rumbled, his tone of voice speaking volumes.

"Missing in action?" I guessed.

Sideswipe interjected, "He'll come. He'll get the transmission like I did and he _will _come. You'll see."

_You'll see._ How many times had my mom used those same words about her brother? 'You laugh just like your uncle. We'll find him and bring him home and you'll see.' Or much later, when the Vietnamese released the remains of some US soldiers, 'We'll finally be able to bring him home with the hero's welcome he deserved, you'll see.' But I never saw him, not even his bones.

Witwicky misunderstood my silence. "Twins are a bigger deal to the Autobots than they are to humans. They share a bond that's deeper than anything we can experience. Like telepathy and sharing each others' emotions."

Deeper than what we humans shared? Somehow, against all odds, I was starting to believe him. I glanced over at the muted twins. "How?"

"Classified." And Prime's voice and body-language brooked no argument.

Classified – was that because they were lying about the twin thing or because they really didn't want us to know? I studied him for a moment, trying to understand his motives, until I realized it was probably related to the whole not-sharing-technology thing.

Which meant they really _were _brothers. The robots had brothers – had families – and art and culture and a belief in an afterlife and…and this red-and-blue monster in front of me considered Sam Witwicky to be one of those brothers. Unable to think anything else to say, I murmured, "Thank you for your time, Prime," and beat a hasty retreat.

Ensign Roskelley followed me back to the bridge in silence as I tried to make sense of this encounter with the machines. Even as I thought the word, I understood why Witwicky freaked out about it. They _were _machines but not _just _machines. That was my mistake.

I stood at the window, staring unseeing at the ocean, more shaken in this moment than I had been in my entire life.

Which meant that the boy would be hot on my heels to rub my nose in it – naturally. In the reflection on the glass, I saw him enter. Trying to get rid of him, I said, "I've got a briefing in ten minutes and some bigwig or another wants your time, too."

Of course he wouldn't leave without saying his piece first. "I came to apologize about Optimus' being so short at the end there."

"They don't share their technology. I was asking about things I shouldn't." Still trying to get a grip on my thoughts and feelings, I said, "Tell 'em I'm not angry."

"Thank you, sir. But I wanted to explain. The twins have been experimented on. As their superior officer, Optimus is…defensive of them. They're really young – just kids – to the Autobots. I shouldn't have…the knowledge about the brother bond is top-secret, but I hadn't realized that."

Defensive. Watching out for the kids that ended up under his protection. "Understood. It will not go beyond us." And if he was going to be so forthright about that, then I owed him an explanation, too. Besides, he wouldn't leave until he knew where I stood. Taking my seat, I said, "I didn't believe you about the family thing. I have an uncle who was MIA in 'Nam. We never did find him. He was my mom's baby brother – fifteen years younger than her. I know how that kind of thing eats at a person. Never knowing…if he's alive, if he's so long gone that his bones are decaying somewhere, if he's being tortured, if he remembers you. She spent years and I don't know how much money trying to find him. Sideswipe is the coldest of the lot, but…" But if he had an MIA loved one and a soul and…

"But he loves his brother," Sam softly said.

"Yeah." And I'd be damned if I was going to start getting all teary-eyed in front of him.

"Thank you, sir," Witwicky quietly said, "For listening."

I snorted, glaring at the kid. "You didn't give me much of an option, civilian punk."

"That's my job." He shrugged, fighting a smirk.

How I'd _love _to wipe it off his face. "Well get back at it with somebody else, then. I'm busy. Dismissed."


End file.
